


No time like the present

by JustSemiotics



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: But only just technically, Character Death, Flowers, Immortality, M/M, There are flowers apparently, in a we will all eventually die sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 17:43:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12304314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustSemiotics/pseuds/JustSemiotics
Summary: They don’t make it to Sussex every time. But given their occupation they turn up there surprisingly often, in the end. By hansom the first time, in a small white sprinter the current time.





	No time like the present

They don’t make it to Sussex every time. But given their occupation they turn up there surprisingly often, in the end. By hansom the first time, in a small white sprinter the current time. The doors to 221B are carefully closed, the rooms preserved, awaiting the century-old sound of an army doctor’s feet coming up the stairs, equally dreadful and excited what he will find behind the doors. What set of eyes will look at him, cobalt-blue and piercing, grey and astonishingly gentle, but always, always filled with recognition and joy. 

The first time they arrive in front of the old cottage John jumps out of the hansom and waits until Holmes manages to exit the hansom on his own, invisible bands around his joints, so much slower in body than his mind ever will be. He has some seconds to spare, waiting for Holmes to make his way – an arm, a friendly gesture is out of the question, of course – and the thought strikes him: “This is where I will live from now on.” Holmes emerges that moment from behind the carriage, coat loose around his shoulder, regal, reading his mind, as always: “It’s as good a place to spent eternity as any, old chap.” There’s a pause and age has mellowed this Holmes for he does not add the “And a good place to die as well”, that both men nevertheless hear. 

The first time, John plants Forget-me-nots. They are good for bees in the spring, or so he has read. Holmes does not mock him, but merely lifts an eyebrow. He has to admit, it’s a bit on the nose, both the obvious and the hidden meaning. And yet, that evening, there’s whiskey and a fire, and an understanding that transcends words and he knows that in a life forced to live a hundreds life times he could never forget: The way Holmes silently laughs, the way Holmes silently cries out. The way Holmes gently tends to his bees and to his doctor. Holmes builds the hives from scratch, something he was always good at, he studies the bees and honours them by making a monograph out of them, much the same way his Boswell honours him by turning him into a story. 

All his Sherlocks, in the moment they arrive at the quiet of the meadows and the downs, all his Sherlocks relish in the bees, savour the honey. All his Sherlocks, throughout the century, they smile. Smile at their Boswell, their blogger, who has made this trip before, who will make this trip again, another Sherlock at their side. Two Sussexcs in a row John plants red carnations, the first set for the quiet one; the second set for the one with the sad eyes. The bees don’t like these flowers, as John learns. But he plants them, two Sussex in a row for John has no other words to tell these Sherlocks that yes, even they, as different as they are from Holmes, even they. 

His Sherlock in the 80s is enamored with the bees, but sometimes lacks the patience to tend to them the way they deserve, rather dancing a dance of his own, humming with energy among them. The honey in these years tastes like laughter and overflowing joy, with dark spices shot through and John loves it all the more for it. He keeps the jars in the kitchen and his Sherlocks know to check whether they’d grab the last jar of anything. They know not to destroy the last taste of his former loves. 

In 1988, while Sherlock jumps through the garden, being indecently joyous John plants pink camellia, as flamboyant and sweet as the man now lying prone on the grass, still vibrating with energy and shouting: “John, look!” for every bee and butterfly that finds its ways onto his big hands. John will look, as he always does, not at the bees per se, but at the man he loves, who is so very excited over the smallest details of life. Camellia will nourish the bees through the winters, as dark and cold as they may be (or so they say). They both know (or if they don’t kow they have a hunch) that Sherlock already lives on borrowed time when they arrive in Sussex and so Sherlock pours all his love and colourful energy in the far too few years he has, before his heart finally fails. 

For his current Sherlock, a Sherlock contradictory to his very core, so very alive now, but grieved for two years, for his current Sherlock who very nearly found his match, for him John is a bit flustered what to plant. He even considers to add some roses, finally. It would fit, men can give men roses now, they can stroll through London again, he and Sherlock, hand in hand. They can meander through the Downs, hand in hand, the way he did with his first Holmes, before taking someone’s hand became dangerous. 

While he contemplates a shipment arrives, and it’s a cedar plant, with instructions on how to grow such a plant on English soil. It bears official government marks, and John dares not to ask what was given in exchange for it. He looks it up, of course, cedars are not the most common of plants. John wonders what plant like this will need to survive in such harsh circumstances, and whether he’ll be able to keep it alive. And yet, looking at the man currently spreading honey on eleven different types of bread, and seeming utterly content, he suppose he knows anyway. In years to come, after nights spent screaming and beating at the ghost in the walls, he sometimes finds a sprig of cedar on the table, as if left there carelessly and he silently answer: “And I for thee.”

John tends to look forward to their arrival in Sussex. It’s as good a place as any to spent eternity, ultimately.

**Author's Note:**

> Many happy returns, my dear one! 
> 
> (Apparently, in middle Europe, you don't get camellia, carnations or forget-me-nots in the autumn... who would have guessed?)
> 
> A late addendum: In Victorian Flower languages, the flowers Watson plants mean the following:   
> Forget-me-nots: True love (among separation of time and space)  
> Red Carnations: I deeply love and admire you  
> Pink Camellia: I long for you and miss you  
> Cedar leaf (at least in some dictionaries): I live for thee.


End file.
